


Of Fireworks and Roses

by Thorntonsheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst Free, Fireworks, First Kiss, Happy Ending, M/M, Requited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 05:28:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2569832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thorntonsheart/pseuds/Thorntonsheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock Holmes.  The man who had faked his own death to save John; the man who had fought back from real death to protect John.  The man who was so much more than just 'Uncle Sherlock' to Rose.  His wild curls were currently tamed under a woollen hat very similar to Rose's, Belstaff  wrapped snuggly around his slim body and his elegant hands wrapped in layers of leather and wool.  Rose's hand looked tiny held in his, but he was holding it as if she was life itself, a precious gift he had not expected to have."</p><p>'Suddenly John knew what he needed to do. Rising up more on his knees John's face was  level with Sherlock's.  John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes, seeing nervousness, realisation and acceptance.  Bringing his hand up he gently stroked Sherlock's cheek, smiling softly when Sherlock leaned in to his caress further. Slowly John moved his face closer to Sherlock's, his gaze flicking from Sherlock's eyes to his lips.  When he could feel the heat of Sherlock's lips almost on his own John let go of the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. "I should have done this years ago."'</p><p> </p><p>Some fluffy fun to help celebrate Bonfire Night here in the UK.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Fireworks and Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I have a beta! Woohoo! Huge thanks to 221Btls for going through this, painstakingly helping me with semi colons in particular! She stayed awake into the wee small hours to get this turned around in time to go out today, what an angel! 
> 
> I decided to write this after getting thoroughly lost in an imagined image of Sherlock watching the fireworks, his otherworldly beauty evident for all to see... including John!
> 
> "Remember remember the fifth of November  
> Gunpowder, treason and plot.  
> I see no reason why gunpowder, treason  
> Should ever be forgot..."
> 
> Traditional British Nursery Rhyme.

John was amazed at how his life had changed over the years. He had been a soldier, a doctor, a lover, a fighter, a blogger and a detective. He had loved and lost, loved and been betrayed and loved again. He had been a boyfriend, a fiancé, a husband and a widower. 

He is a father.

Holding the hand of his four year old daughter, John's face reflected the joy he saw displayed clearly on the faces of the two people he loved most in all the world.

His precious little Rose, her blonde curling hair hidden beneath a brightly coloured woollen hat, big blue eyes reflecting the lights colouring the sky and her face flushed red from the cold air and excitement of the evening. Her small body wrapped under many layers of jumpers, jeans, coats, scarves and mittens - each item lovingly adorned somewhere with a hand sewn bee. She may have been a surprise, her conception unplanned, but she was very far from being unloved.

John's gaze then travelled to the person holding Rose's other hand, the person who had remained steadfast at John's side through hours of night feeds, upset stomachs, teething and bad dreams. Who had helped him move from his flat in 221B to bigger rooms a few doors away. Helped him decorate the nursery in bright colours, painted little bees, sweet peas and roses on every surface of her room. Who played violin for her when she cried and told her stories when she couldn't sleep. The man who was now watching the fireworks display with the same look of childlike glee on his face.

Sherlock Holmes. The man who had faked his own death to save John; the man who had fought back from real death to protect John. The man who was so much more than just 'Uncle Sherlock' to Rose. His wild curls were currently tamed under a woollen hat very similar to Rose's, Belstaff wrapped snuggly around his slim body and his elegant hands wrapped in layers of leather and wool. Rose's hand looked tiny held in his, but he was holding it as if she was life itself, a precious gift he had not expected to have.

Rose had come to John from what ended up as a loveless marriage, he had expected to feel nothing for her, but the moment he had looked at her tiny face in the ambulance his heart had filled with love for her. Her birth had come moments after a sniper's bullet had ended the life of her mother. Rose couldn't help her beginnings, but John could ensure the rest of her life was a life full of love and honesty. He remembered Sherlock's first look at her as she lay cradled in John's arms, her skin still delicate and covered with the evidence of her traumatic birth. Sherlock had called her his little Sweet Pea and John had cried in surprise and in relief. Sherlock had taken off his scarf and gently wrapped her up in it, swaddling her against the night air, had placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before giving her back to John. John had never seen such tenderness on that handsome face before and his heart had felt as though it was soaring with happiness. Guilt at his own joy at the time of such loss had made John quickly swallow any secrets he may have uttered. His own loss had happened many months before with Mary's betrayal; he mourned the loss that his daughter had undergone.

Sherlock had spent the intervening years being with John and Rose as often as he could. Sometimes John would be able to go on a case with Sherlock, entrusting the care of Rose to a select few. He had been able to return to work at the surgery relatively easily, a crèche being in place on site for the children of the staff, Rose only being entrusted to their care after Mycroft had thoroughly checked all the staff. On many occasions upon finishing his shift John had found Sherlock sat on the floor encouraging Rose's first steps, or building towers, or simply observing her as she slept. At these moments John had remained hidden from sight and for a few short minutes had allowed himself to watch them, warmth spreading throughout his body like a kiss from the sun. Shortly after Rose had begun to crawl Sherlock had commented that she was like a little busy bee, darting from place to place, her snub nose into everything. John had loved the new endearment, thinking how well it sat with the flower names both men called her, Rose to her father and Sweet Pea to Sherlock. A few days later Sherlock had arrived at their flat with his arms full of packages, each package containing a new item of clothing, adorned with an exquisitely hand sewn bee. Over time the bee appeared on all of Rose's clothes, it took John a stupidly long time to realise that Sherlock himself was sewing the bees on.

Rose's high laughter broke John out of his memories and back to the present. She watched the fireworks as they exploded into rainbow colours high over the ruins of Caerphilly Castle, the loud bangs and whistles almost drowning out the accompanying classical music. Her upturned face shone with unadulterated glee.

"Uncle Sherlock? I can't see; up please." Rose's sure voice demanded, knowing that Sherlock would be unable to resist her. John felt her small hand slip from his and watched with pure joy as she was deftly swept up and placed on Sherlock's broad shoulders.

"Is that better, Sweet Pea?" Sherlock's voice was rich with laughter. John felt a surge of love for the people beside him, laughing aloud when Rose squished her rounded cheek against Sherlock's prominent cheekbone, covering his eyes briefly with her mittened hands.

"Daddy I can see loads from up here! Uncle Sherlock is so tall!" Rose proceeded to bounce on Sherlock's shoulders but was held firmly in place by Sherlock's large hands holding onto her lower legs. "Ooh! Uncle Sherlock, that one was just like your eyes! Blue and green and gold!"

John watched his daughter and his best friend more than he watched the display. He noticed the way the fireworks threw their colours against cold kissed skin, saw the way the patterns were reflected in two pairs of wide eyes. Listened when Sherlock explained to Rose the chemistry behind fireworks, a now sleepy child cradled in his arms, her face snuggled into his scarf, small arms wrapped around his neck.

"Sherlock, I think we should take her back to the cottage now, she's tired herself out." John kept his voice instinctively quiet even though he was still surrounded by the noise of the travelling fair and the last few fireworks. 

"I'm not tired Daddy, I ... I .. want to stay up with you and Uncle Sherlock." Rose's speech was interspersed with deep yawns as she cuddled herself more closely to Sherlock's chest. 

"Home to bed, Sweet Pea. We will have more adventures tomorrow won't we John?" The deep rumble of Sherlock's voice seemed to be enough to convince Rose to close her eyes.

"Do you want me to take her, Sherlock?"

"No, I'd like to hold her for a bit more, if that's ok, John?" Sherlock's voice was still quiet but John could hear the vulnerability there. 

"Of course Sherlock, of course it is." John reached out and stroked Rose's soft cheek with his now ungloved hand. "She loves you, you know. Easily as much as she loves me."

"And I love her. I never thought I'd feel this way about someone, ever. Then I met you and my life began to change; then my little Sweet Pea arrived and ..... well, I never realised how much love I still had to give." All the while Sherlock spoke he kept his eyes firmly fixed on Rose's sleeping face, some sixth sense guiding him through the crowds and avoiding obstacles. John couldn't help but admire the grace of the man.

"Still had to give? Sherlock, who else have you given your love to? I'm guessing you don't mean Mycroft or your parents? Although I know you love them, too." John felt his stomach clenching. Who else had his best friend given his heart to and why didn't he know?

"It's not important now, John. Let's get Rose back to the cottage."

John knew well enough now to know when Sherlock was avoiding talking about a subject and he fell silent, not wanting to ruin a lovely evening. 

The drive to their holiday cottage wasn't very long and John was once again pleased he had persuaded Sherlock to join them on their impromptu holiday. He missed living in 221B and having Sherlock about at all hours of the night and day. He'd enjoyed the first few months after Rose's birth when he had been back at the only place he considered home; unfortunately it was too small a place for a growing girl and John had reluctantly moved out.

On arrival at their cottage Sherlock and John worked together getting a still sleeping Rose ready for bed, changing her into a bee decorated pair of pyjamas before tucking her in. Both men kissed her gently before walking quietly downstairs and organising themselves on the comfortable couch in the living room. They sat in relaxed silence for a while before John decided to light the wood filled fire; he leaned back on his heels, lost in the flames.

"Are you ok, John?" Sherlock's voice was hushed, instinctively keeping its deep tones quiet.

"Yeah. I was just remembering a different bonfire night, years ago, just after you returned. You pulled me out of the fire and I knew I couldn't stay angry with you anymore. You risked your life, again, to save me. I wish you'd come home sooner Sherlock, then I never would have met Mary." John's shoulders were slumped in defeat.

John felt a hesitant hand briefly squeeze his shoulder. "But then you wouldn't have Rose. I wish you hadn't had to suffer through everything you did; I wish I could change how everything happened, but you have Rose, and she's a little miracle."

"We." John looked straight at Sherlock now, his voice firmer. "We wouldn't have Rose; she's as much yours as she is mine. You've been as much of a father to her as I have; you've been there when no-one else has been. You've looked after the both of us through fever and colds; you even got the measles because you refused to leave her side. And I know it's you sewing on those bees, Sherlock. No father could love her more."

"John ...." Sherlock was lost for words, gazing at John with wide open eyes.

Suddenly John knew what he needed to do. Rising up more on his knees John's face was level with Sherlock's. John looked deep into Sherlock's eyes, seeing nervousness, realisation and acceptance. Bringing his hand up he gently stroked Sherlock's cheek, smiling softly when Sherlock leaned in to his caress further. Slowly John moved his face closer to Sherlock's, his gaze flicking from Sherlock's eyes to his lips. When he could feel the heat of Sherlock's lips almost on his own John let go of the breath he hadn't realised he had been holding. "I should have done this years ago." The words escaping him.

His whispered words feathered across Sherlock's parted lips moments before their mouths met in a light kiss. Firm lips met full, strong lips in the briefest of caresses and John could not think of a more perfect kiss. He felt a strong hand slide to the back of his neck, bringing him back into another kiss. This time the kiss was firmer, silky skin moving over silky skin, heads tilting as the kiss deepened. 

"I told you daddy loves you, Uncle Sherlock!" A small voice interrupted them from the stairs, the words full of sleepy joy. The two men moved away from each other, startled by the unexpected voice.

"Rose, you should be in bed! Come on, back up you go." John smiled in apology at Sherlock before picking Rose up, preparing to take her back up to bed.

Peeking back over her dad's shoulder Rose looked directly at Sherlock. "Can we move in with you now .... Papa?" 

"Rose, I.. I... Your daddy and I will talk about it. Off to bed you go, Sweet Pea."

John returned downstairs a few minutes later.

"She's asleep now, hopefully for the whole night this time." John smiled shyly at Sherlock before moving to sit next to him, thigh pressed against thigh. "She was telling the truth you know. I do.. " John took a deep breath, taking Sherlock's hand in his own. "I do love you. Have for years actually."

"Oh, John. You really are an idiot." Sherlock swiftly pressed his lips on John's, silencing his protest with a kiss. "How did you not know that I love you too, have done for years. Sweet Pea picked up on that when she was still very young. She used to talk to her dolls, saying 'daddy loves Rose, Sherlock loves Rose, Rose loves Sherlock and daddy. Daddy loves Sherlock and Sherlock loves Daddy. ' I never corrected her on it because on my side it was true. I knew you loved me, as a friend, and I was happy to have just that. Seems like you're not the idiot in the room!"

"She really is a clever girl that one. Just like her Papa." John's shining eyes met Sherlock's, happiness apparent on both men's faces.

"Papa? I like that. Papa to my little Sweet Pea." Sherlock interlaced his fingers with John's before bringing their joined hands up to his lips. "Come home John, come home to me."

John felt the murmured words as they caressed his fingers, eyes closing with the intimacy of the moment. Leaning forward, John brushed his lips along Sherlock's neck, causing Sherlock to tremble at the sensation. His small kisses gradually deepening, turning into open mouthed caresses, each caress punctuated with a sighed 'yes.'

**Author's Note:**

> I struggled over what to name the Watson child, eventually settling on Rose and Sweet Pea, both flowers that represent eternal love. The romantic in me couldn't resist! 
> 
> There is a language, little known,  
> Lovers claim it as their own.  
> Its symbols smile upon the land,  
> Wrought by nature's wondrous hand;  
> And in their silent beauty speak,  
> Of life and joy, to those who seek  
> For Love Divine and sunny hours  
> In the language of the flowers.  
> –The Language of Flowers, London, 1875


End file.
